METAMORPHOSES

I

If those shape-changings yet may be
That Ovid and his kindred sing,
Let me be turned into a tree,
Earth-rooted, yet with heart to spring
So heavenly high that, when the glades
Hold it as truth that all is night,
I may assert above their shades
The flouted legend of the light.

And when the dark is dark indeed,
And jungle voices round me jar,
I with such scrutiny would read
The promise of a single star
That instantly my nesting tongues
May carol news of darkness gone,
When slowly down my thrilling rungs
Descend the golden feet of dawn.

Adyar, India.

II

If those shape-changings may be still
That Ovid and his kindred sang,
Make me into a distant hill
Where secret-symbolled curtains hang

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